


I don’t wanna be your friend (loose my breath)

by RPGCATZ



Category: Marble Hornets
Genre: Fixed some stuff so the touching seems less sexual, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Kissing, M/M, Mature for safety, Pay(me)’s gay so these two get to be gay too, a bit of a vent fic, and made it easier to read each part, demiromantic Alex kralie, idk - Freeform, kind of personal?, sad stuff, uhhh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-02
Updated: 2018-09-02
Packaged: 2019-07-05 20:30:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15871203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RPGCATZ/pseuds/RPGCATZ
Summary: “I don't wanna be your friend I wanna be your bitchAnd I wanna touch you ,but not like thisThe look in your eyes,My hand between your thighs,Oh, this can't be realIt's all just a dream”-I wanna be your girlfriend, girl in red-updated; 1/8/19 -





	I don’t wanna be your friend (loose my breath)

**Author's Note:**

> Title, quote and story inspiration from  
> “I wanna be your girlfriend” by girl in red. 
> 
> this song is really gay and I’m gay for someone so I gotta Write Gay faves y’know??!!!!!
> 
> -updated; 1/8/19 - made it easier to read the characters (capital Hims-Alex, lowercase hims-Tim) after suggestion from user Iggy_McBabyface-

They kiss a few times, at the start of it all.

The first is the worst.

Lips pressing together, no tongue, no teeth, just softness that makes anger and bile lap at the back of his tongue, and he wishes he had it in the other boy’s mouth so he could understand how it felt. So he could see what it did to him. 

He was cold, He knew He was. 

he, on the other hand, was like a furnace against His face and arms.

It burned, and when they parted it stung and it pulled His skin from it’s lining and He hated it. 

_Not right, not right, not right._

They kiss again, when it ends, but only once.

it never felt right, never felt like sparks were exploding in them when they kissed. It just felt like pins digging into His mouth.

He hated it. But not him, never him. 

They don’t break up, they were never together in the first place, but it still stings. 

Worse than the kisses, worse that the look of dissatisfaction that crossed his face so many times at His lack of a reaction. 

They don’t break up, they just stop kissing. 

It feels better, better than the sound of laughter that escapes the other’s lips when He tries, and fails, to persuade him that they should get McDonald’s instead of Wendy’s because of the chicken nuggets. Better than the feeling of his bigger arms wrapping around Him in the middle of the night as He tries to slip off to the bathroom to pee, better than the taste of food that they do end up making from home, filled with something sweet and gentle that shouldn’t be in the recipe, but is anyways. 

It gets better, and then He has a realization. 

He sneaks out of the apartment and walks all the way down to the bus stop at three am, wallet, money, small bag, clothes, etcetera all with Him. Ready, so ready, to leave, to forget it ever even happened, to forget those stupid, thorn covered, rose like emotions ever even started growing in His chest. 

He’s not ready, He’s not ready for this, too much too much too much, the thorns will outgrow the roses, and it’ll hurt. It’ll hurt so much more than the last, it’ll hurt and He’ll never get better and, and, and, and. 

And He walks all the way back to the apartment, eyes blurry with tears and His keys gripped like a weapon between His fingers. It hurts, the feeling of skin on metal hurts, but it hurts so much less than what He knows the thorns will feel like. 

He enters the apartment to the sight of him, sitting on the couch, staring at the tv with some stupid show playing as background noise. He drops His bag next to the door, not sure if He’s even going to be allowed to stay after this, playing it safe.

he turns to Him, eyes wide in surprise, maybe a slight glint of relief, possibly even the faint sight of sadness and anger. 

It’s understandable, the thorns push against His lungs, and He sucks in a breath. 

He knows He’s shaking, He knows He looks like shit, (He feel like shit too so why not look the part?), He wants to be held, He wants him to hold Him, to tell Him that it’s okay, that He can stay, that he forgives Him, _anything_. 

Instead, he mumbles a light “thought you were gone,” from the couch. 

The air in His lungs burn, igniting the pinpricks left by the thorns, it hurts, but it’s now or never, so He says what He needs to quickly, just in case. 

“Ithinkiminlovewithyou,”

He feels Himself tip for a second, He’s staring at a mark on the carpet that was left from the spaghetti incident. His vision blurs, so He snaps His eyes shut. 

He doesn’t want to see the disgust that’ll fill up his eyes. He doesn’t wanna see the anger and hatred in his eyes. He just wants to die if that’ll be the only outcome He’s supposed to get.

”what?” 

The voice is soft and closer, he’s closer, any minute now. The hits will come, the disgusted remarks will join them. The thorns are nearly stabbing through him now, hurting hurting painful hurting, 

“I- i think I’m- in love, with you, im- I’m sorry-“ 

He doesn’t know why He apologizes, He doesn’t know why he expects to be hit, He doesn’t know why He expects him to yell. He doesn’t know why the thorns pull back. 

He’s crying. He knows He is. He probably looks disgusting, He’ll probably be kicked out, he probably hates Him now. He can’t blame him, He would hate himself too. 

But then he’s cupping His face, and pulling him closer, and wiping tears from His eyes and rubbing his thumb against His cheek softly. 

“Hey, hey, why are you crying?” 

He doesn’t know, so He doesn’t say. Just shakes His head, and tries not to fall into him. Tries not to let forth the tidle wave of internalized self hatred that wants to flood the air between them.

He opens His eyes, and stares at the face of the person who the roses had grown for. 

he moves a thumb to His chin, pulling down. He doesn’t ask verbally, doesn’t need to ask, because he says it all in his eyes and then he’s grabbing Him and pulling him by the shirt collar and slipping their lips together. 

The roses start to bloom in his chest. 

When he kisses Him, it’s messy and a bit desperate and sloppy, but it’s perfect. 

His breath catches in his windpipes when they land in his, no, their bed. 

Heat is all over his body, moving in lines from where his lover touches on his skin.

He’s still crying, not because of the bile, not because of disgust, not because of those fucking thorns. He’s still crying, because for once it doesn’t hurt. 

It doesn’t hurt to have their lips crash and meet and slip across one another. It feels like he’s kissing clouds. 

It doesn’t taste like vomit, it taste like cigarettes and microwave noodles and strawberry flavored vodka and He’s reeling from the shock of it all, but it’s good. It tastes like him, it tastes like them, and He’s crying. 

His hands trail up his shirt, then down his skin, not once touching below the waist. 

he’s leaning over Him, kissing, rubbing, touching, tasting at any part he can get to. 

He reaches a high, its odd. He’s done this before, but not like this. Never like this. 

A paniced blur of TooSoonTooMuchMakeItStop passes in His mind, and He stops his hands from going any further. 

He floats back down, he doesn’t crash. He’s pulled back to ground level by lips softly kissing his neck, shoulders, collarbone, chin, anything. 

he waits until He’s fully present before running a hand through His hair and kissing Him lightly against the corner of His moth, then His neck, than His lips fully. 

He wraps His arms around him, holding him closely. He fears that if He lets go, He’ll wake up. He’ll wake up and all of it wouldn’t have happened. 

He’s scared, just a bit, but when he pulls a blanket over them, and kisses Him a few more times, and traces lazy patterns into His freckles as neon lights from the street softly pours in through the small window of their bedroom, He feel safer. 

The roses bloom, and later that day, He wakes up next to His lover, His _boyfriend_ , and He finally feels like he can breathe again. 

It feels right, it feels good, it feels better. 

_The thorns leave, and He feels like He can breathe again._

 

**Author's Note:**

> Honestly this is just one big vent fic where I make Alex Demi-romantic and traumatized from a relationship like me but he gets a chance to tell his (now)bf he loves him. 
> 
> To explain; Alex and Tim are kinda dating kinda not in the beginning? They just kiss a lot. Alex had trouble with romantic relationships and kissing due to trauma so it’s really bad for him but he doesn’t know how to explain this to Tim, so he just looks uninterested all the time, so they don’t kiss and just kinda live together for a while. But! Then a strong connection gets put between them, and Alex develops feelings for Tim, while Tim’s always had feels for alex (just a bit). Alex, due to past stuff, gets scared about feeling things for Tim, bc he’s internalized that hes just going to ruin it all, that it won’t be good, etc (basic post-abusive relationship self blaming bs you know?) and he almost runs off. But, the feelings are really strong, and Alex kind of wants to like Tim more than what he does already, so he goes back. He comes back to Tim, who’s really worried that Alex just ran off out of nowhere, and is surprised that Alex came back. Alex is basically having a meltdown, and just tells Tim what he’s feeling. They end up in a bedroom. It’s just holding and kissing tho. Alex finally feels better, Tim is gay for Alex and I’m gay for this song still. 
> 
> I wrote this in one night on no sleep, so please tell me if something’s messed up.  
> But,  
> As Always,  
> Comments and Kudos are much appreciated loves!~


End file.
